


constant faith and hope sublime

by mortifyingideal



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas Decorations, Christmas Tree, Discord: O Lord Heal This Server, Gift Fic, M/M, Selfridges Christmas Shop, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, established relationship? pre-relationship? it's christmas baybee you decide!, excessive use of the love language of gift giving, getting sentimental about aziraphale getting sentimental about shoes: the crowley story, getting sentimental about shoes: the aziraphale story, just a truly obscene amount of christmas tat to fit inside one relatively short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28203696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mortifyingideal/pseuds/mortifyingideal
Summary: Crowley’s infiltration of the seasonal industries in order to supposedly further the machinations of Hell on Earth was one of the demon’s proudest achievements for the great cause. It was also—Aziraphale knew—a load of old poppycock.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38
Collections: "O Lord Heal This Gift Exchange 2020" [OLHTS discord server]





	constant faith and hope sublime

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsNoggin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsNoggin/gifts).



> this is a gift written for the OLHTS gift exchange of 2020! nogz wanted aziraphale and crowley enjoying a bit of ye olde commercialised christmas and i hope, my darling, that this silly pile of fluff delivers everything you could wish for (also there's a special guest star, not naming names but his appearance fee was _exorbitant_ )
> 
> i already owe too many life debts to [indie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indieninja92/pseuds/indieninja92) and though i live in fear of the day they come to collect, this fic would not be half as good without their sweaty, guiding hands. my immortal soul seems a small price to pay tbh

Soho, being home to mostly specialist stores, was the hunting-ground of the discerning Christmas gift-giver. The general public flooded the commercialised main streets in their droves; Oxford and Regent practically ground to a standstill at this time of year; and even the boutiques and by-appointment-only establishments of Canary and Ganton were busy, though not unreasonably so. Though he couldn’t have known about this fortuitous little turn of urban development at time of purchase, Aziraphale’s shop was tucked away on Greek Street amongst cafes, bars, and the occasional human statue. In theory, all these elements should have protected it from anyone wanting to nab a quick gift for a loved one—or, Lord forbid, one of those dreadful _25 PLACES TO VISIT IN LONDON BEFORE YOU DIE OF CHRISTMAS FATIGUE_ listicles. The human statues _alone_ were enough to drive potential customers to the other side of the street, really quite an ingenious suggestion from Crowley. There was, however, a problem.

The problem was that every Christmas A. Z. Fell & Co. was the most resplendently decorated shop in all of Soho. Possibly all of London, if not the entirety of England. The merriment that blazed forth from his beloved little establishment lit up the shop like the entire Heavenly Host had personally taken up residence inside and forgotten to turn down the brightness settings on their corporeal forms. This kind of showy seasonal splendour was, naturally, not the attitude one might expect of a shopkeeper who was determined to keep as little shop as possible at all times.

Aziraphale adored Christmas, as well as the humans who adored Christmas. What he did not was adore the idea of people wishing to celebrate the most wonderful time of the year doing so _inside his sanctum sanctorum._ Oh, of course, the simplest solution would be to just _not_ decorate at all. Shutter the windows, turn off the lights, keep even more erratic opening hours than usual throughout the whole of December. Every approaching November, Aziraphale was determined that this year, _this year_ he would not do it. He would hang not a single garland, nary a wreath nor sprig of mistletoe. There was to be no _festooning_ of any sort, thank you very much. His love of Christmas rose _above_ the need for such materialistic trimmings. He was a strong, independent angel who did not require a man, even if said man was jolly, fat and typically bedecked in red.

The shop bell tinkled, interrupting his self-affirmations in more ways than one as he looked upon the source of all his seasonal-based issues. Smirking, skinny and bedecked, as always, in black and currently carrying— _oh dear_ —a Selfridges’ bag.

“What is that?” Aziraphale asked, rudely, in lieu of a proper greeting. He’d barely had one pot of tea, and was not adequately prepared to be on the defensive so early.

“And a very good morning to you too,” Crowley said, still smirking. “Popped over to Selfridges on my way here. Did you know their Christmas Shop opened in _June_ this year?”

Aziraphale did know that, because Crowley bragged to him about it every opportunity he got. Apparently the low-grade resentment of the inevitable reminder of Christmas on the horizon made the general populace so miserable that Crowley could have happily bulldozed the M25 in a heartbeat, were they to have such things, and still claim he was over-quota on all Hellish assignments for the next hundred years. Crowley’s infiltration of the seasonal industries in order to supposedly further the machinations of Hell on Earth was one of the demon’s proudest achievements for the great cause. It was also—Aziraphale knew—a load of old poppycock.

“You may have mentioned it, once or twice or, oh, a _dozen_ times. How were the results of all your hard work, then? As beautiful and festive as you’d hoped?” Aziraphale asked, suppressing a smirk of his own as he watched for the tic of displeasure at the corner of the demon’s mouth— ah. _There_ it was.

“Beautiful? _Festive?_ _”_ Crowley spluttered, following up with a noise akin to a reindeer receiving a carrot at the wrong end. “Do you not listen to a word I say? It’s torture, Aziraphale, plain and simple, for staff and shoppers alike. It’s only the first of December and they’re already set to riot over who gets the last disgustingly overpriced piece of garbage. It’s a shrine to the capitalist, the one percent, the big man himself. Literally, there’s a Santa the size of Hyde Park sat right in the middle of the room. Motion-activated. Big booming _HO HO HO_ every time someone walks past, scares the living daylights out of them before it's even started singing.”

“I'm almost afraid to ask what—”

“ _Santa Baby_.”

“Eartha Kitt?”

“Michael Bublé.”

They both grimaced.

“S’not really my fault on that one. There’s only so many Christmas songs Hell has the rights to,” Crowley said, before brandishing the little yellow bag that signalled Aziraphale’s doom for another year. 

“Something from the Food Hall?” Aziraphale asked, hopefully, not reaching to take it. Crowley dumped it on the desk anyway, with slightly more care than his nonchalant shrug would suggest he felt for its contents.

“Just a bit of tat I picked up while I was doing the rounds— thought I’d help jumpstart the chain of pointless decoration buying with the morning crowd. S’nothing special. Is there coffee on?” He disappeared into the back of the shop as he asked this question, leaving Aziraphale to ponder the issue of the unwanted gift by himself.

This was the crux of the conundrum. Yes, Aziraphale loved Christmas. Aziraphale loved Christmas in a way that had been, over the years, described as _a tad too much_ and _without restraint_ and _excessive to the point of madness._

And Crowley, for all the demon would protest should the issue be unwisely raised to his face, loved Christmas _more_.

Crowley, who could not decorate his own home for fear of an unscheduled visit from his superiors. Crowley, whose face lit up every time he managed to catch the _Coca Cola_ Christmas Truck advertisement. Crowley, who had once returned to Hell for an all-staff meeting on Boxing Day and only noticed halfway through that he was still wearing the novelty Christmas tie Aziraphale had bought him that year (and that he had claimed to the angel he was only wearing because Aziraphale would make a fuss if he didn’t). In an attempt to save face in front of the entire company, Crowley had decided the best course of action would be to _eat the tie_. He reasoned, telling this story to Aziraphale later, that James Bond did this all the time with microfilms or microchips or other things beginning with micro. The tie was decidedly not micro. It was a jumbo-sized tie made to look like a stocking bulging with presents and, when squeezed in a particular place, loudly played an off-brand version of _I WISH IT COULD BE CHRISTMAS EVERYDAY!_ At the end of the meeting Beelzebub had thanked Dagon for taking the minutes, Yasti for arranging the catering, and Crowley’s stomach for providing the music. He had not gone back for an all-staff meeting since.

And so it was that Crowley—frequent friend of the loophole—celebrated Christmas by proxy through Aziraphale. Yes, A. Z. Fell & Co. was the most resplendently decorated shop, but A. Z. Fell had never actually bought a single decoration. Every single bit of Christmas-based finery had been purchased by & Co himself. This was why, each year, Aziraphale found himself relinquishing his promises to himself vis-a-vis the trussing up of his premises. He hadn’t found it in his heart, yet, to have The Difficult Conversation with Crowley about how Christmassy bookshops are to customers as honey is to flies. He was sure the demon would _understand_ if he just wanted to take one Christmas off from the whole kit-and-caboodle being deployed. It was only that Aziraphale didn’t want to hurt him inadvertently. Far too much of that for one lifetime, thank you, even lifetimes as long as theirs. They could still celebrate! Just in a much smaller, much more _contained_ way. Really, the difficulty wasn’t only that he wanted to let Crowley experience all the joys of the season, Aziraphale mused as he resigned himself to rooting around in the little gift bag in front of him, it was also that all of Crowley’s decorations seemed so—

“Oh!”

— _personal._

Aziraphale felt a little foolish for the soft exclamation that, he hoped, no demons had been close enough to hear. The bauble Crowley had decried as ‘tat’ was delicate— perhaps some sort of glass, as it rang pleasingly when he tapped the rounded edge of his nail against it. It was wonderfully painted, not a line out of place, and the pink blush lacquer on it shone when held up to the light. Pressed along the raised strip on the top were two delicately aligned circles consisting of individually pressed golden spheres. Aziraphale had the horrible suspicion they might have actually been real gold. Aziraphale turned the decoration over in his hands and a quick peek confirmed that there was real silk lining the inside. Crowley had, somehow, found for Aziraphale a bauble that was a perfect miniature replica of the pair of shoes he had worn in 1793, in Paris. 

“Right,” Crowley, who had emerged from the back room now that the rustling of tissue paper and emotional vulnerability had ceased, did not meet Aziraphale’s besotted and questioning gaze as he strode into the middle of the room. All for the best, really, Aziraphale tried to console himself. If Crowley had looked at him in that moment and made Significant Eye Contact he wasn’t sure either of them would have gotten anything productive done for the next millennia or so, and he’d been quite looking forward to next year’s West End season. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale hesitantly began, as the demon in question stood underneath the western point of the shop’s compass and held his arm out straight in front of him, thumb outstretched and squinting through one eye. “Crowley, did you— did you _make_ this? I mean, did you have this made?”

“Weeeeell, ‘had it made’ is a stretch,” Crowley said, beginning to shift tables away from the centre of the room. “I mean, one could argue, if one felt so inclined, that I am single-handedly responsible for eighty percent of all non-traditional baubles produced in the UK, thanks to years of careful planning and being very vocal during a few product design think-tanks. Nothing says _we as a society have forgotten the true meaning of Christmas’_ like an all T-Rex nativity scene. Give me a hand with this?”

Aziraphale, still a little stunned, rushed to his feet and helped Crowley lift the heavier end of the main table. “Please tell me you haven’t bought an all T-Rex nativity scene.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, angel,” Crowley grunted, catching his hip on one of the other re-homed tables as they made their way past it. “Wouldn’t be caught dead with one of those. How _very_ 2015 of you. Here, put it down here.”

“Right, yes, of course. Mind your feet now, my dear, I— hang on. _Why_ are we rearranging my tables?”

“To make room for the tree that’s getting delivered this afternoon.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Aziraphale took a very deep breath. Aziraphale tried his hardest to remind himself he loved being an angel even if that meant having to be the patient and virtuous one, and he loved the season, and—of course—he loved Crowley. He _loved_ Crowley, and Crowley loved Christmas, and Crowley had ordered him a Christmas tree without so much as a by-your-leave. 

“How, ah. How big?” Aziraphale asked, still refusing to look at the situation head-on. He couldn’t see Crowley, but Aziraphale just knew he was pulling that particular face that made him look less like a demon and more like an early-season cast member of _The Muppets._

“Oh, you know, probably about— couldn’t be much more than, well, if I had to hazard a _guess_ it’d most likely be—” at this point, Aziraphale opened his eyes and Crowley’s stammering came to a very abrupt halt, “—about eighteen foot? Give or take a couple of feet.”

This was it, this was the moment. Aziraphale had to tell him now. This was his last-chance opportunity to tell his friend that he couldn’t just go around _doing_ things like this before they got too far down the glistening, slow-covered lane of their usual seasonal dance. _Crowley,_ he was going to say, _I care for you so very much. You are, without a doubt, the most precious thing in this world to me and your happiness is paramount to my own. I love that you have bought me so many things and that you show how you care for me in this particular way and that Christmas is something truly ours, that we can celebrate together. That having been established, if even a single pine needle makes its way into this shop this year I will, to put it bluntly, have no choice but to fucking kill you._ He drew himself up as best he could, and looked his beloved demon square in his irritating, handsome, and currently-looking-horribly-unsure-of-himself face. 

“Righty-o,” Aziraphale said, out of his traitorous, smitten mouth, “I’ll just fetch up the boxes of decorations from the basement, shall I?”

* * *

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, A. Z. Fell & Co had been featured in no fewer than seven Christmas listicles, sold no fewer than _thirty_ books during the run-up to the day itself, and now contained no fewer than two absolutely trollied supernatural entities, basking in the light of the twenty-two and a _half_ foot Christmas tree that had pride of place in the middle of the floor. Some of these entities were basking a little more traditionally than others, currently being a snake. 

They were both on the floor of the shop, wine glasses within easy reach. Aziraphale had spread out like a snow angel on the floorboards and had been humming _The Twelve Days of Christmas_ to himself happily for a while now. Crowley, shortly after transforming, had wrapped himself around his new favourite perch—neither of them would cop to having purchased the rather lanky-legged snowman Aziraphale had uncovered in the basement, with his very tall and pointy hat, but the brown parcel tag tied to the end of his scarf had informed them both he was called Jingle Jangle, and he was the perfect festive resting place for Crowley’s smallest snake form (though that part hadn’t been written on the tag).

“Sss’alright, innit?” Crowley said, dislodging the tiny Santa hat Aziraphale had adorned him with earlier as he lifted his head to look at the tree.

Aziraphale, who was wearing a headband consisting of a bushel of sparkly sprouts, and who had done very little but stare at the tree once they had finished decorating it, scoffed at him.

“Alright? _Alright?_ Crowley, it’s _stunning._ S’the best tree I’ve ever _seen_ ,” the angel slurred, gesturing wildly at its many, many branches, “didn’t even particularly mind that it brought in the riffraff—”

“Riffraff?”

“—the rabble—”

“Come on, wasssn’t that—”

“—and the journalists.”

“Fair cop, that onesss unforgivable. M’gonna sssort it out.”

“Doesn’t matter, simply _doesn’t matter._ You decorated it so wonderf’lly, all the ordamen—oramends—baubles.”

“You helped,” the snake replied, slithering down off his perch to join Aziraphale on the floor. “Sssaw you, helpin’. Helped loadsss, you did.”

“Yes, but they’re, you know,” Aziraphale said, getting a little frustrated that Crowley was either wilfully missing his point or—more likely—he was a bit too drunk to make it properly, “they’re all from you, aren’t they? They’re all a bit of you. Bits of us. Darling, darling little bits. Like the shoes! Oh, I _loved_ the shoes, did I tell you that? I hope I told you that. And, and the—the wossisface, the biscuit tin, that one’s _lovely._ ”

If any other being on the planet had looked at Aziraphale’s hodgepodge of seemingly non-seasonal ornaments, they might have been a little confused at the departure from the old bookseller’s usual traditional style. Oh, he had the usual of course. Sets of golden pears and deep red apples hidden amongst the deep branches— though one might remark upon one of the apples at about eye height that looked to have a bite taken out of it. Strings of lights and tinsel and plain baubles as space fillers, yes, even if one of the strings of lights looked suspiciously sword-shaped and the tinsel was a mixture of creams, golds, blacks and reds that twisted together in a way that was not quite visually complementary but nevertheless seemed _right_ for this particular tree. The rest of the tree, however, would look much more discordant to the casual observer. A dove of peace (which looked to be wearing a tartan bow tie if one got close enough) was surrounded by cocktail-umbrella laden martini glasses, filled with the sort of colours that promised one a very good time and a terrible hangover in equal measure. Mini Shakespearean folios (though only the ones that end in a bit of a song and dance) sat beside mini copies of all the James Bond novels, which didn’t look to have fallen victim to the same mirth-based censorship rules. A small, somewhat plain ornament that looked like a grey brick wall with a hole in the middle oddly took up pride of place front-and-centre amongst the bottom branches. A tiny set of perfectly formed sushi ornaments hung next to a _guillotine,_ of all things. 

To the _casual observer,_ yes, this random mish-mash of detritus didn’t seem to belong in A. Z. Fell & Co.’s Christmas displays, and wasn’t saying much of anything other than _I robbed a Paperchase warehouse whilst blindfolded._ But Aziraphale was not a casual observer. He was a very _invested_ observer, and what Aziraphale saw when he looked at their tree was the perfect tree for his bookshop. It was a tree that told stories— his and Crowley’s stories. Their history. The story of a relationship that shouldn’t have been, that had seen countless setbacks, seen plenty of raucous nights, seen world-changing events and world- _saving_ events and still, against all odds, had survived. Crowley had said he wouldn’t think about him, off in the stars, but here in front of Aziraphale was the perfectly-decorated, incontestable proof that Crowley _did_ think of him, and think of him often. Or, at least, that Crowley thought of him every time he happened to go to Selfridges’ Christmas Shop. _Take that, stars_ , Aziraphale thought, nonsensically.

Hang on, there was something in that. Aziraphale’s pickled brain tried it's hardest to grasp onto the middle carriage of that train of thought.

“Ah, they’re just _trinketsss,_ angel. Nothing to write home about, just... thingsss,” Crowley’s coils gave the distinct impression of a shrug, though the angel was scarcely paying him any attention even as the serpent began to slither across his thighs to reach for the next bottle. “Don’t think too much about it, sss’not worth it, _aaanyway,_ did I ever tell you ‘bout how I convinced Vicky to bring that tree over for Albert, thusss dooming everyone to endless debatesss ‘bout real trees versus sssynthe—”

“Stars!” Aziraphale shot up and yelled, causing Crowley to seemingly get such a fright he reflexively swapped back into his human form and landed half-on and half-off Aziraphale’s lap with a small yelp.

“Wossat? Stars?” Crowley asked, still trying to wriggle the rest of the way off Aziraphale as if he were still a snake. Aziraphale, sobering himself a little, simply lifted the demon up and carefully deposited him down. 

“Crowley, sober up a bit, would you? There’s something we’ve forgotten for the tree.”

“Angel,” said a suddenly-less-drunk Crowley, “if we put anything else on that tree even a miracle wouldn’t be enough to stop it from collapsing under its own weight.”

“Stuff and nonsense, dear boy. Hold out your hands.”

“My hands?”

“If you please.”

Crowley grumbled something that sounded remarkably like ‘if _you_ please, more like’, but did as requested. Aziraphale beamed.

“I'd like you to make a star for me.”

He didn’t miss the demon’s soft intake of breath. 

“Been a _long_ time since I’ve done that,” Crowley murmured, but had already begun flexing his clever fingers. “Probably be a bit rusty, might not, ah— might not turn out so well.”

 _It’ll be perfect and you know it, you daft old serpent,_ Aziraphale thought but did not say, for fear it would give his friend a swollen head. The thought must’ve made a break for it across his face, though, because Crowley took one look at him, rolled his eyes and grinned.

“Alright, alright, one star coming up,” he said, and then slammed his hands together with quite the dramatic _clap!_ Crowley rubbed his hands together quickly, as though he were attempting to light kindling for a fire, then slowed to a complete halt as light began to emerge from the cracks between his fingers. Carefully, carefully, his palms opened like a flower in bloom to reveal a miniature, living star, floating in the air above his skin.

“Course, it doesn’t have any of the _properties_ of an actual star. Just looks like one,” Crowley smiled, looking proudly upon his work before meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “Suit your purposes, then?”

Aziraphale felt a little cruel for what he was about to do, but he was sure it would be worth it in the end. 

“Actually, no. This doesn’t look right at all.”

Crowley, to his credit, didn’t even flinch at the remark. He did, however, almost jerk completely out of his own skin when Aziraphale’s soft hands slid underneath the backs of his own, closing them back around the small light.

“I’ve, ah, I’ve never actually done this before,” Aziraphale said, suddenly nervous, unsure. “I wasn’t like you, wasn’t on any of the building committees, didn’t— didn’t make anything. Not officially, anyway.”

“You’re rambling, angel,” Crowley said, kindly, clearly having realised what Aziraphale meant to do. “S’not rocket science.”

“No, it’s not, it’s actually _much_ more complex than—”

Crowley silenced him with a look, and Aziraphale swallowed, and hoped having somewhat sweaty palms wouldn’t affect what he was about to do. He closed his eyes and felt around for a few spare elements here and there, concentrating them between his and Crowley’s clasped hands until something in the air shifted with a small _pop._ They both felt it happen, and let their hands fall away from their protective curl around the stars at the same time, though Aziraphale did not take his hands away from Crowley’s, and Crowley didn’t seem particularly keen to remove himself from the angel’s hold either. They watched as the binary stars began their ascent to the top of the tree and finally settled there, together, lazily orbiting each other. 

“Ha!” Aziraphale exclaimed, feeling very, _very_ pleased with himself. “I’d like to see them sell _those_ in Selfridges’ Christmas Shop.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Crowley mused, leaning into his side, “quick word with the clever design department at one of the more lucrative companies, bit of invisible wire, some—”

“Rubbish, my dear,” Aziraphale cut him off, clumsily squeezing where he was still grasping Crowley’s hands to punctuate his point, “a sentimental homemade decoration like that? No commercial value at all. They’re just a bit of tat.”

Crowley grinned in that particular way that meant he was holding back from the most delightful fit of laughter. Aziraphale was determined to coax it out of him properly by the end of the night.

“You’re right, angel. Nothing special. Embarrassing, actually, when you think about it. Having something like that on your tree,” he said, before linking his fingers properly through Aziraphale’s and squeezing him in return. “Our tat, though, eh?”

“Our tat,” Aziraphale agreed, settling in against his serpent, and decided he would convince Crowley to put off whatever he had planned to _‘sssort out’_ those journalists until after Boxing Day. It was _Christmas,_ after all.

**Author's Note:**

> alternate titles for this fic included: 'chest-nogz roasting on an open fire', 'father christmas, or, how aziraphale learned to stop worrying and love the festive season' and 'in this one they both get to top'


End file.
